A Poisoned Season (5 page)

“I shall not apologize for coming to you like this, Lady Ashton. You cannot be surprised to see me.”

“I’m so sorry, I’ve not the slightest idea to what you refer.” I glanced again at her calling card. “Mrs. Francis? Is your husband David Francis?”

“There’s no need to play naïve with me, young lady. I know all about—” She stopped, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Please sit down.” I ushered her to a chair and rang for tea, growing more confused with each passing moment. “Have we met before?”

This made her laugh, with a deep, nervous sound. “I am quite aware that you were my husband’s mistress. Now that he is dead—”

“Dead? Mr. Francis is dead?” I pictured him sitting in my library not two weeks ago and, though I had not known him well, was consumed with the horrible, sinking sensation that is the faithful spouse of all dreadful news.

“He died two days ago.”

“I am more sorry than I can say. Was he ill?”

“You know that he was not.” Above their red rims, her eyes blazed with acrimony. The heat in my house was suffocating. I crossed the room and began flinging open windows. A parlormaid entered with a tea tray.

“No, take it away,” I said. “Bring us something cold.”

Mrs. Francis did not speak again until the girl had left the room. “His last words were about you.”

“How can that be? I only met him once.”

“I’ll thank you not to pretend innocence. If it was only once—” She had started to cry again, and I could not bear seeing the pain etched on her face.

“Please, let me comfort you.” I took her hand, and though she would not look at me, she did not pull it away. “I know not how such a misunderstanding has come to pass. I was never your husband’s mistress, nor was I romantically linked with him in any way. He was one of a group of my friends at the theater a week or so ago, and we all came here afterwards. Nothing of significance transpired between us.”

“Why, then, was it your name that he uttered with his last breath?”

“I’ve no idea. You must know his friend, Mr. Michael Barber? He was here with us, and I’m sure he could put your mind to rest.”

“Michael was here?” Her shoulders relaxed slightly.

“What did your husband say about me?”

“He asked that I bring his snuffbox to you.”

“His snuffbox?”

“It’s a pretty silver thing that once belonged to Marie Antoinette. I assumed that he had promised it to you.”

This gave me a better sense of why he had wanted me to have the box. “Did he know he was dying?”

“Yes.” She raised her eyes to meet mine.

“I can well understand why you suspect what you do. But I think,
Mrs. Francis, that your husband was simply trying to protect you.” I recounted for her our conversation about the thefts and the pink diamond, leaving out the bits in which he had described his wife. Any lady capable of confronting her husband’s suspected paramour so soon after his death had far too much spirit to be painfully shy.

“Now it is I who am confused. What is this pink diamond?”

“The one that was stolen from your home. Your husband saw no point in upsetting you with the news of the theft, although I suppose once it was in the papers he had to come clean. Men do so like to think they’re protecting ladies, don’t they?”

“We’ve never owned a pink diamond.”

“You’re certain?” I asked, not terribly surprised. I remembered that Mr. Francis said that it wasn’t the sort of thing his wife would have liked.

“Without a doubt. I’ve always admired colored diamonds—the white ones seem to me altogether lacking in soul. David knows that better than anyone.” She held out her hand to show me her wedding ring, a gold band with a large blue diamond set in it. “You say the newspapers reported this? We don’t take them at the house, so I never see them. David prefers to read them at his club.”

“The thefts have been the biggest news of the Season.” I frowned, wondering why Mr. Francis would have hidden the diamond from his wife. “Could your husband have only recently bought the diamond, intending it as a gift for you?”

“He could not have afforded such a thing. Not anymore.” The tears began again.

“I’m sorry. I’ve done nothing but upset you.”

“No.” She managed a smile. “I believe you when you say you were not David’s mistress. Finding that he was unfaithful to me would be far more troubling than this pink diamond ever could be.”

“May I ask how he died? You said he was not ill. Was there an accident?”

“No, Lady Ashton. My husband was murdered. His valet fell victim to the same poison yesterday morning.” The air rushed out of my lungs and I could scarcely draw breath. Murdered. My heart felt torn in two for this woman, who, like me, had lost a spouse to violence.

“I must tell you a story,” I said, and, taking her hands in mine, recounted for her the story of my own husband’s demise, along with my role in uncovering his killer. Soon we were both weeping, and when at last the maid returned with cold lemonade, neither of us touched the glasses she set in front of us.

“You are good to share this with me after I barged into your home making dreadful accusations,” Mrs. Francis said. “I’m so sorry.”

“When I learned that Philip had been murdered, I accused innocent parties of far worse than adulterous affairs.” I remembered well the implacable calm with which Colin had faced my erroneous charges. I may not have been bold enough at the time to denounce him directly, but he knew full well that I suspected him of killing his best friend. “You and I are bound together by a bitter kinship. Please do not feel that you ever need apologize to me for transgressions brought on by your grief.”

We sat together some time longer, saying very little. Before she left, I promised to come to her in Richmond after the funeral was over. I knew she would need friends then, when the rest of society would abandon her, another lonely widow left for dead. I felt deeply unsettled when she was gone, all the memories of Philip stirring in me again. I had not thought about him—not really—in months, and realizing this brought back that most unwelcome of companions, guilt. My present happiness in life—my independence, my fortune, even Colin—all stemmed from my husband’s death. Had he lived, I would not find myself so pleasantly situated.

My melancholy solitude was soon interrupted. Davis announced Colin and handed me a letter at the same time. Despite the heat, my friend managed to look more cool and crisp than was strictly fair,
particularly given the marked contrast of my own appearance. “You’ve not changed your dress since the regatta,” he said, and sat next to me on the silk-covered settee.

“No,” I said, dropping the letter on the table next to my lemonade as I told him of my meeting with Mrs. Francis.

“A terrible tragedy,” he said. “I read about it in the papers this morning. You’re sweating.” He caught a drip of water that was falling down my glass of still-untouched lemonade and traced his cool, wet finger around my face, then down my neck. And though my skin responded as it always did to Colin’s touch, I was too distracted to really enjoy the sensation.

“What color were Philip’s eyes? They were light, that much I remember, but were they blue or gray?”

He pulled back from me. “Blue. What brings this on?”

“Mrs. Francis, I suppose. Speaking with her made me realize that I owe all my current joy to him. It’s an odd sort of feeling.”

“One of which I’m all too aware. Had I not lost my best friend, I might never have found a woman who could captivate me the way you do. There will always be a touch of the bittersweet in our love, Emily.” He stood up, walked across the room, and stared out the window.

I did not feel much like pursuing the subject and fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment before finally picking up my lemonade. “Would you like some?”

“No, thank you. Are you going to open your letter or are you bent on wallowing all afternoon?”

“Why the sudden interest in my mail?”

“Because it was I who found it sitting on your doorstep. Quite mysterious, I thought.”

This piqued my curiosity, and I picked up the envelope, examining it carefully before opening it. “I really must spend more time on my Greek,” I said once I had unfolded the note. “My skills at sight-reading are woefully lacking. Will you?” I handed it to him:

“I beseech thee, Love, charm asleep the wakeful longing in me
.” He frowned. “
The Greek Anthology
again.”

“Would you read it in Greek?” He obliged me immediately, and the seductive lilt of the ancient language drove from me any lingering melancholy.

“That certainly brightened your eyes,” he said. “Who is sending you these messages?”

“I’ve not the slightest idea.”

“I wish you would find out. I should very much like to know my competition.”

“I wouldn’t know how to begin.”

“Try,” he said. “I’ll wager that you can figure it out.”

This made me laugh. “A bet? What will I win?”

“Identify your admirer before the end of the Season, and I shall travel with you through Greece this fall.”

“Scandalous! I thought you weren’t willing to see me
that
corrupt?”

“I’d prefer not to.” He took my hand in both of his, and the feel of his skin on mine thrilled me more than I ought to admit. “But the temptation is hard to resist.”

“And if I lose?”

“You agree to marry me.” His gaze held steady on mine.

“Sounds like a risky proposition for me either way.”

“It is.”

“I’ll take your wager, Colin. It shall bring an added interest to what might otherwise be a vapid Season. And who knows what gentlemen I might encounter during my search. An admirer who courts his lady in Greek is not to be lightly discarded. Perhaps you ought to be jealous.”

“Not at all. I’m confident that no one you find can do for you what I would.” Our eyes met and we leaned towards one another. My lips parted, and I waited for his kiss. It did not come. “No, I’d better not kiss you,” he said, keeping his gaze steady and not pulling back from me. “I must accept the possibility that you could turn down my proposal. And, should you eventually marry someone else, I would not want your husband to hold against me the fact that I had taken such a liberty with his future wife.”

“You’ve kissed me before.”

“And it was most ungentlemanly of me to have done so. I shall be more careful in the future.” With that, he kissed my hand, lingering over it deliciously, and left, turning to smile at me one more time before he closed the door.

Not two minutes later, my maid appeared, asking me if I still wanted a bath.

“Yes, Meg. Cold. I want it painfully cold.”

T
hree days later I received a note from Mrs. Francis. Her house had been burgled again. This time, the only thing taken was her husband’s silver snuffbox. The newspapers had been filled with stories about Mr. Francis’s death from the moment they learned of it, and each of them had mentioned that he died clutching the object. They attributed his death to Marie Antoinette’s curse and warned the citizens of London to take heed, suggesting that those whose property was stolen were lucky to have escaped with their lives.

4

A
FTER PENNING A HASTY REPLY TO
M
RS.
F
RANCIS,
I
CHANGED INTO
a well-cut riding habit and made my way to Rotten Row, needing desperately to clear my head. It was late in the afternoon, so most people were parading in their carriages, but I wanted my horse. The exercise was refreshing but did little to rid me of the searing feeling that I was responsible for having brought Mr. Francis to the attention of his murderer. I did my best to rally my spirits when I came upon my dearest childhood friend, Ivy, who was in her carriage with her husband and Lord Fortescue, a gentleman whom I avoided whenever possible. Our contrary views on seemingly every topic made conversation uncomfortable at best.

“I’m so glad to see you!” Ivy said, smiling brightly at me before turning to her companions. “Emily has been keeping herself hidden far too much lately.”

“Strange time of day to be riding, Lady Ashton.” Lord Fortescue looked at me closely, making no attempt to hide the fact that he found fault only with my behavior, not my ensemble, with its smart, double-breasted jacket and red vest.

“I’ve adopted a strictly self-indulgent approach to the Season.

Why should one be limited to riding in the morning?” Robert shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and I realized that this was not, perhaps, a wise thing to have said in front of Lord Fortescue.

Poor Ivy! Ever since her husband had determined to enter politics, she had found herself much in the company of Lord Fortescue. He had the queen’s ear and was considered to be the most powerful man in the government, although he occupied no formal position beyond the seat in the House of Lords that his title brought him. All aspiring politicians were at his mercy, and he delighted in exercising any control he could over them.

“What drivel,” Lord Fortescue said. “Shouldn’t want any wife of mine to think like that.” It was all I could do to keep from wondering aloud if he would want any wife of his to think at all. “Which reminds me, Lady Ashton, that Aloysius Bingham tells me you’ve been harassing him over some gaudy bowl. Leave him alone. It’s no business of yours if he wants to keep the thing for himself. This rot you’ve been spewing to him about it belonging in the museum suggests to me that you are in desperate need of a husband with a very firm hand.” The sound of a horse stopping next to mine saved me from having to respond to this inane comment, and I turned to see Charles Berry tipping his hat.